The Investigators (Badge of Honor 7)

Schwartz laughed.

“Who do you think did it?”

“That state cop was pretty clever. I had a chance to talk to him before Young showed up and threw me out of the bank. The state cop thinks it was probably some guy from the coal regions, out of work for a long time, maybe in deep to some loan shark. You know, really desperate. If he is an amateur, and gets smart and quits now, he’s probably home free. Despite what that pompous asshole from the FBI declared, they catch damned few bank robbers.”

“Maybe this one will be easy to find. Hairy legs. Too much lipstick.”

“I think that description—the ‘really ugly’ part, too—may not be all that reliable.”

“Tell me?” Schwartz asked, smiling.

“I had the feeling after talking to Dailey that he was more than a little disappointed that once the broad had him all tied up she didn’t do all sorts of wicked sexual things to him. Hell hath no fury, et cetera.”

“Jesus, Mickey!”

“There’s probably going to be surveillance-camera pictures of him—or, for all we really know, her—you can judge for yourself.”

“There’s pictures? When do we get them?”

“So far as Young is concerned, after I told him off, I’ll get them the day after hell freezes over,” O’Hara said. “But the state cop said he’d send me a copy when he gets his.”

“We can lean on the FBI, if you think we should.”

“I don’t think it would be worth the effort. They’re generally pretty lousy pictures, even if the camera was working, and I wouldn’t bet on that. I asked the state cop for a copy just to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Okay, Mickey. Nice little yarn. Would you be heart-broken if I ran it on the first page of the second section?”

“I’m surprised that you’re going to run it at all,” O’Hara said. “It’s not much of a story.”

“I like it,” Schwartz said, meaning it. “A little droll humor to brighten people’s dull days.”

Without taking her eyes from the inch-thick, bound-together-with-metal-fastener sheaf of papers lying open on her cluttered desk, Susan Reynolds reached for the ringing telephone and put it to her ear.

“Appeals, Reynolds,” she announced.

“Miss Susan Reynolds?” an operator’s voice asked.

“Right,” Susan said.

“Deposit fifty-five cents, please,” the operator ordered.

Susan could hear the melodic bonging of two quarters and a nickel.

She felt sure she knew who was calling. She seldom got long-distance calls made from a pay phone in the office.

Confirmation came immediately.

“Susie?” Jennie asked.

Jennie was Jennifer Ollwood.

“Hi,” Susan said.

“Could you call me back?” Jennie asked. “I’m in a phone booth and I don’t have any change.”

“Give me the number,” Susan said, reaching for a pencil, then adding, “It’ll be a minute or two. They don’t let me make personal toll calls.”

Jennie gave her the number. Susan repeated it back to her.